


Whatever He Needs

by mikkimouse



Series: Tumblr Fics [246]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkimouse/pseuds/mikkimouse
Summary: Aziraphale asks Crowley about his trial. Crowley has to admit he didn't have one.





	Whatever He Needs

**Author's Note:**

> So I rambled a not!fic in the tags of [this post](https://gingersnapwolves.tumblr.com/post/185800399239/i-know-theres-that-post-going-around-about) and then had two separate people ask me for a full fic. I have enough other stuff to write, so I was going to say no, but let’s be real, the amount of prompting I need right now to write a Good Omens fic is approximately zero.
> 
> Originally posted to Tumblr [here.](https://mad-madam-m.tumblr.com/post/186177119025/can-you-please-please-write-a-full-length-fic-of)
> 
> Unbeta'd.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask, what was my trial like?” Aziraphale asked out of the blue after three bottles of wine.   


Crowley fumbled his glass and nearly dropped it, and only a minor demonic miracle kept the wine from splattering all over the sofa. “Er, what?”   


“My trial. You know.” Aziraphale pointed upward at the bookshop ceiling and then poured them both some more wine. “Up there. I mean, you did say they won’t leave us alone forever, and much as I _want_ you to be wrong about that, I don’t think you are. If Gabriel or one of the others mentions something to me, I shouldn’t like to give the game away if I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

Crowley’s throat went suddenly dry, and he drank most of his wine in one swallow. “I mean, I _could_ be wrong. It’s been a few weeks. They may be leaving us alone for good.”   


“Crowley, I know you don’t actually believe that,” Aziraphale said in a manner that meant he wouldn’t be budged on this topic, and then his face softened into concern. “My dear, what is it? Was it really that awful?”   


There was no way to hide it. And he _shouldn’t_ be hiding it, but the instinct he had to protect Aziraphale was strong. They both knew how awful the angels could be, but Aziraphale seemed to cling stubbornly to the idea that there _was_ still good up there, somehow. And Crowley hated being put in the position to remind him otherwise. 

He sighed and pulled off his sunglasses. The least he could do was do this without any barriers between them. “You didn’t have a trial, angel.”

Aziraphale stared at him, eyes going ever-so-slightly wider than normal. “What?”   


Crowley rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked down at his wine glass. “There wasn’t a trial. They just tied me up in a chair until the demon got there with the hellfire. And then they only untied me to tell me to walk into it. No prosecution, no defense, no nothing.” He cleared his throat and finished off the last of his wine. “It was just an execution.”

He looked back up from the glass to Aziraphale, who had gone uncharacteristically still. The disbelief on his face faded as the words sank in, and he looked…

Shattered. Shattered and hollow and more than a little betrayed.   


Crowley hated himself for putting that look on his angel’s face, even if he was only the messenger.   


Aziraphale blinked quickly and smiled, but it was only a faint echo of his usual one. “Oh. Well. I really shouldn’t be surprised, all things considered. Gabriel isn’t one to let things like _facts_ get in the way of his decisions. And it does make things a bit easier on me, I suppose. Not much at all to remember, is there?” He gestured with his glass. “Thank you for telling me, my dear.”

No, Crowley didn’t hate himself. He hated _Gabriel_ , and if that bastard of an archangel came within a hundred feet of Aziraphale, Crowley was going to burn him where he stood. He’d do it _now_ if he thought it would wipe the broken look off Aziraphale’s face. He’d yank them all out of Heaven in a heartbeat.   


But he’d known Aziraphale too long. Revenge wouldn’t fix anything, and Aziraphale would probably be upset with him for even trying it.

Crowley cast about for an idea, something that _would_ help. “Why don’t we go see a movie? It’s Friday. There’s loads of new ones.”

Aziraphale laughed, although it wasn’t so much of a laugh as a sharp exhale through a smile that was breaking apart. “I’m afraid I’m not feeling much for a movie.”

“Concert?” Crowley suggested. “I think there’s one you’d really love.”   


Aziraphale shook his head.   


“Opera? They’re doing _Carmen_ tonight.” Somebody somewhere would be doing _Carmen_ tonight; Crowley could find a way to get them there. “Or _Hamlet_?”   


Fuck, he would sit through a _hundred_ performances of _Hamlet_ if it just meant Aziraphale would smile like normal again. 

Aziraphale’s smile trembled, and he stood up from his chair and joined Crowley on the couch. “I think,” he said very softly, “I would just like you to sit with me for a bit.”   


It was both the simplest thing to do and the hardest thing to do. Crowley switched his glass to his other hand so he could put his arm on the back of the couch, behind Aziraphale. “Of course, angel.”

Aziraphale shifted closer, and Crowley took the invitation to drop his arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. His angel let out a shuddering sigh and leaned fully against him, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder.   


Crowley held him close and pretended he didn’t hear it when Aziraphale sniffled. He did, however, mentally catalog all the ways he knew to kill an angel because he would only get the chance to use _one_ of them on Gabriel and he had to pick the best one. Might as well get started on deciding now, so when the time came, he would be ready.   


He wasn’t sure how long they sat together, quiet but for Aziraphale’s shaky breaths. It had to have been awhile, because Crowley had finished going through every way he knew of to completely and utterly destroy Gabriel, and had moved on through Uriel and Sandalphon and was working on Michael just for the hell of it (Michael hadn’t been there, but Michael was a wanker of the highest order and Crowley would _dearly_ love to shove them into a pillar of fire) when Aziraphale sat up and patted Crowley’s shoulder.   


“I’m afraid I’ve made quite a mess of your shirt,” he said.   


“It’s fine,” Crowley said quickly. He could not give less of a shit about his shirt. “It’ll clean.”   


The smile Aziraphale gave him was still small, but much closer to his usual one, and the knot of anxiety in Crowley’s chest finally began to loosen. “Well, thank you very much, my dear.”   


“Of course.” Crowley rubbed his thumb along Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Whatever you need.”

It scared him sometimes, the depth with which he _meant_ that. He wasn’t sure if Aziraphale even understood the true lengths to which he’d go. 

Then again, Aziraphale had threatened never to talk to him again and Crowley’s immediate response had been to stop time, so maybe he did. 

Aziraphale stared at the floor of the bookshop, looking not quite as shattered as he had before but still impossibly _sad_. Crowley was torn between wrapping him in a blanket and getting a head start on his revenge plans.

He compromised on attempting more comfort. “You’re better than all of them, you know. Bunch of self-righteous, hypocritical—” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “ _Crowley_.” 

“What? I’m not _wrong_. I’m a demon, I can spot self-righteous hypocrisy from several miles away. They’re awful, angel. You aren’t. You’re what they _should_ be.”

Aziraphale did not look at him, but Crowley saw the corner of his lips turn up. “Will you be irritated if I say that’s very kind of you?”

“Only if you say it loudly,” Crowley muttered. He still had something of a reputation to uphold. 

“Hm. Then I shall say this next part very quietly.” Aziraphale sat up a little straighter and linked his hands in his lap. “You are my oldest and dearest friend, and your opinion matters more to me than anyone else’s. It always has, even when I was too frightened to admit it.”

Crowley gaped at him and scrambled to find a coherent thought, as his entire conscious mind was hung up on _oldest and dearest friend_. “Hang on, I’m supposed to be the one saying things to make you feel better.”

Aziraphale turned to him, and now his smile was much closer to normal. “Interesting. It seems like saying nice things to you helps immensely. I’ll have to do it some more.”

The very air in the bookshop had to be consecrated. That was the only explanation for why his cheeks were suddenly burning. “You do not.” 

“Oh, I really think I do.” Aziraphale patted his knee. “In fact, I think I _need_ to do it.” 

The sly look in his eyes told Crowley that the word choice had absolutely been deliberate. He groaned and dropped his head back on the couch. “Just keep it quiet, will you?” 

“As a mouse,” Aziraphale promised, but he was practically glowing with the prospect. 

The sight of it loosened the knot in Crowley’s chest the rest of the way. 

He groaned again, but it was only for effect. He _had_ meant what he’d said, after all. 

Whatever his angel needed. 

**Author's Note:**

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End file.
